Harry and Meghan #299 Spare The book that makes Twilight look like Tolstoy

[LadyMuck]

I'm still gobsmacked at watching Tom Bower's revelations on gb news last night that H has been a drug addict for 25 years, is still using and that Doria was a drug dealer! That's why her and,TM split up. And that she was missing for 10 years but legally he can't say anymore about that.

He's an experienced lawyer himself. Can't wait for other journos to pick this up

 

[NorthernValkyrie]

Thank you to all the professionals, medical experts, and coaches for keeping me physically and mentally strong over the years.
Dr. Lesley Parkinson,
Dr. Ben Carraway and Kevin Lidlow, and also Ross Barr, Jessie Blum, Dr. Kevin English, Winston Squire, Esther Lee, John Amaral, and Peter Charles.
Also Kasey, Eric Goodman, and the two Petes.
Special thanks to my U.K. therapist for helping unravel years of unresolved trauma.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex. Spare

Finally THE END

Take a bow, Anna. You have done magnificent work.

Remind me to never seek help from any of the professionals listed in Harold's thanks.

 

[mumpty]

Within two hours of our son being born we were back at Frogmore.

IT DOESNT MAKE ANY SENSE she would still be numb from the epidural 2 hours later and then slowly recovering. Also they have to catheterise you with an epidural, which means you would then need that removed and pass your trial without catheter - i.e. monitored for several hours to make sure you wee enough. Also she seems to go from minimal dilation to pushing the baby out instantaneously.

There is either some medical malpractice going on, or I'm on #teamsurrogate

 

[Maggiemaynot]

Apologies if already posted. I can’t keep up.

 

[curiousbeaver]

What the fuck!! He says in interview that the goal of writing the passage on the Taliban was to reduce the number of suicides amongst veterans!

How?

What fucking planet is this twat living on?

He’s in some kind of alternate reality where paid audience members cheer the utter drivel that spews from his mouth.

 

[I Should Know Better]

I WOKE TO a text from Jason.
Bad news.
What is it now?
The Mail on Sunday had printed the private letter Meg had written to her father. The letter that Granny and Pa urged her to write.
February 2019.
I was in bed, Meg was lying next to me, still asleep. I waited a bit, then broke the news to her softly.
Your father’s given your letter to the Mail.
No.
Meg, I don’t know what to say, he’s given them your letter.
That moment, for me, was decisive. About Mr. Markle, but also about the press. There had been so many moments, but that for me was The One. I didn’t want to hear any more talk of protocols, tradition, strategy. Enough, I thought. Enough.
The paper knew it was illegal to publish that letter, they knew full well, and did it anyway. Why? Because they also knew Meg was defenseless. They knew she didn’t have the staunch support of my family, and how else could they have known this, except from people close to the family? Or inside the family?
There was nothing in that letter to be ashamed about. A daughter pleading with her father to behave decently? Meg stood by every word. She’d always known it might be intercepted, that one of her father’s neighbors, or one of the paps staking out his house, might steal his post. Anything was possible. But she never stopped to think her father would actually offer it, or that a paper would actually take it—and print it.
And edit it. Indeed, that might have been the most galling thing, the way the editors cut and pasted Meg’s words to make them sound less loving.
But the pain was compounded tenfold by the simultaneous interviews with alleged handwriting experts, who analyzed Meg’s letter and inferred from the way she crossed her Ts or curved her Rs that she was a terrible person.
Rightward slant? Over-emotional.
Highly stylized? Consummate performer.
Uneven baseline? No impulse control.
The look on Meg’s face as I told her about these libels rolling out…I knew my way around grief, and there was no mistaking it—this was pure grief. She was mourning the loss of her father, and she was also mourning the loss of her own innocence. She reminded me in a whisper, as if someone might be listening, that she’d taken a handwriting class in high school, and as a result she’d always had excellent penmanship. People complimented her. She’d even used this skill at university to earn spare money. Nights, weekends, she’d inscribed wedding and birthday-party invitations, to pay the rent. Now people were trying to say that this was some kind of window into her soul? And the window was dirty?
Meg wanted to sue. Me too. Rather, we both felt we had no choice. If we didn’t sue over this, we said, what kind of signal would that be sending? To the press? To the world? So we conferred again with the Palace lawyer. We were given a runaround.
I reached out to Pa and Willy. They’d both sued the press in the past over invasions and lies.
Pa sued over so-called Black Spider Letters, his memos to government officials. Willy sued over topless photos of Kate. But both vehemently opposed the idea of Meg and me taking any legal action. Why? I asked. They hummed and hahed. The only answer I could get out of them was that it simply wasn’t advisable. The done thing, etc.
I told Meg: You’d think we were suing a dear friend of theirs.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

And so begins again Harold's re-writing of history. Forgot the bit where the letter TW wrote to her father was written with the aim of pulling at heartstrings of the public because you banked on the distraught man publishing it, did you? But he didn't publish it at first - he held on to it hoping to reconnect with his daughter. So what did you do, Harold? You and TW gave the letter to TW's "friends" who then gave it to People Magazine and, backed into a corner, Mr. Markle gave it to the Mail in an attempt to set the record straight and defend himself.

Forgot all that you disgusting twat? You won't succeed in your re-writing of history - we on Tattle know it all and have it documented in our Wiki. Once again, it will all come out and we'll all be here to watch you and TW crash.

 

[Yupitsme!!]

'The tears in her eyes glistened in the spring sunshine'
What the actual fuck is this pish? An autobiography or a chick-lit book..im beginning to think she has been in his ear with this book, no way would a man think that


Jesus fucking wept.

 

[Anna2020]

I WOKE TO a text from Jason.
Bad news.
What is it now?
The Mail on Sunday had printed the private letter Meg had written to her father. The letter that Granny and Pa urged her to write.
February 2019.
I was in bed, Meg was lying next to me, still asleep. I waited a bit, then broke the news to her softly.
Your father’s given your letter to the Mail.
No.
Meg, I don’t know what to say, he’s given them your letter.
That moment, for me, was decisive. About Mr. Markle, but also about the press. There had been so many moments, but that for me was The One. I didn’t want to hear any more talk of protocols, tradition, strategy. Enough, I thought. Enough.
The paper knew it was illegal to publish that letter, they knew full well, and did it anyway. Why? Because they also knew Meg was defenseless. They knew she didn’t have the staunch support of my family, and how else could they have known this, except from people close to the family? Or inside the family?
There was nothing in that letter to be ashamed about. A daughter pleading with her father to behave decently? Meg stood by every word. She’d always known it might be intercepted, that one of her father’s neighbors, or one of the paps staking out his house, might steal his post. Anything was possible. But she never stopped to think her father would actually offer it, or that a paper would actually take it—and print it.
And edit it. Indeed, that might have been the most galling thing, the way the editors cut and pasted Meg’s words to make them sound less loving.
But the pain was compounded tenfold by the simultaneous interviews with alleged handwriting experts, who analyzed Meg’s letter and inferred from the way she crossed her Ts or curved her Rs that she was a terrible person.
Rightward slant? Over-emotional.
Highly stylized? Consummate performer.
Uneven baseline? No impulse control.
The look on Meg’s face as I told her about these libels rolling out…I knew my way around grief, and there was no mistaking it—this was pure grief. She was mourning the loss of her father, and she was also mourning the loss of her own innocence. She reminded me in a whisper, as if someone might be listening, that she’d taken a handwriting class in high school, and as a result she’d always had excellent penmanship. People complimented her. She’d even used this skill at university to earn spare money. Nights, weekends, she’d inscribed wedding and birthday-party invitations, to pay the rent. Now people were trying to say that this was some kind of window into her soul? And the window was dirty?
Meg wanted to sue. Me too. Rather, we both felt we had no choice. If we didn’t sue over this, we said, what kind of signal would that be sending? To the press? To the world? So we conferred again with the Palace lawyer. We were given a runaround.
I reached out to Pa and Willy. They’d both sued the press in the past over invasions and lies.
Pa sued over so-called Black Spider Letters, his memos to government officials. Willy sued over topless photos of Kate. But both vehemently opposed the idea of Meg and me taking any legal action. Why? I asked. They hummed and hahed. The only answer I could get out of them was that it simply wasn’t advisable. The done thing, etc.
I told Meg: You’d think we were suing a dear friend of theirs.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

 

[Anna2020]

WILLY ASKED FOR a meeting. He wanted to talk about everything, the whole rolling catastrophe.
Just him and me, he said. As it happened, Meg was out of town, visiting girlfriends, so his timing was perfect. I invited him over.
An hour later he walked into Nott Cott, where he hadn’t been since Meg first moved in. He looked piping hot. It was early evening.
I offered him a drink, asked about his family.
Everyone good.
He didn’t ask about mine. He just went all in. Chips to the center of the table. Meg’s difficult, he said.
Oh, really?
She’s rude. She’s abrasive. She’s alienated half the staff.
Not the first time he’d parroted the press narrative. Duchess Difficult, all that bullshit. Rumors, lies from his team, tabloid rubbish, and I told him so—again.
Told him I expected better from my older brother. I was shocked to see that this actually pissed him off. Had he come here expecting something different? Did he think I’d agree that my bride was a monster? I
told him to step back, take a breath, really ask himself: Wasn’t Meg his sister-in-law? Wouldn’t this institution be toxic for any newcomer? Worst-case scenario, if his sister-in-law was having trouble adjusting to a new office, a new family, a new country, a new culture, couldn’t he see his way clear to cutting her some slack? Couldn’t you just be there for her? Help her?
He had no interest in a debate. He’d come to lay down the law. He wanted me to agree that Meg was wrong and then agree to do something about it. Like what? Scold her? Fire her? Divorce her? I didn’t know.
But Willy didn’t know either, he wasn’t rational. Every time I tried to slow him down, point out the illogic of what he was saying, he got louder. We were soon talking over each other, both of us shouting. Among all the different, riotous emotions coursing through my brother that afternoon, one really jumped out at me. He seemed aggrieved. He seemed put upon that I wasn’t meekly obeying him, that I was being so impertinent as to deny him, or defy him, to refute his knowledge, which came from his trusted aides.
There was a script here and I had the audacity not to be following it.
He was in full Heir mode, and couldn’t fathom why I wasn’t dutifully playing the role of the Spare.
I was sitting on the sofa, he was standing over me.
I remember saying: You need to hear me out, Willy.
He wouldn’t. He simply would not listen.
To be fair, he felt the same about me.
He called me names. All kinds of names. He said I refused to take responsibility for what was happening. He said I didn’t care about my office and the people who worked for me. Willy, give me one example of—
He cut me off, said he was trying to help me.
Are you serious? Help me? Sorry—is that what you call this? Helping me?
For some reason, that really set him off. He stepped towards me, swearing. To that point I’d been feeling uncomfortable, but now I felt a bit scared. I stood, brushed past him, went out to the kitchen, to the sink.
He was right on my heels, berating me, shouting. I poured a glass of water for myself, and one for him as well. I handed it to him. I don’t think he took a sip.
Willy, I can’t speak to you when you’re like this.
He set down the water, called me another name, then came at me. It all happened so fast. So very fast. He grabbed me by the collar, ripping my necklace, and he knocked me to the floor. I landed on the dogs’ bowl, which cracked under my back, the pieces cutting into me. I lay there for a moment, dazed, then got to my feet and told him to get out.
Come on, hit me! You’ll feel better if you hit me!
Do what?
Come on, we always used to fight. You’ll feel better if you hit me.
No, only you’ll feel better if I hit you.
Please…just leave.
He left the kitchen, but he didn’t leave Nott Cott. He was in the sitting room, I could tell. I stayed in the kitchen. Two minutes passed, two long minutes. He came back looking regretful and apologized. He walked to the front door. This time I followed. Before leaving he turned and called back: You don’t need to tell Meg about this.
You mean that you attacked me?
I didn’t attack you, Harold.
Fine. I won’t tell her.
Good, thank you.
He left. I looked at the phone. A promise is a promise, I told myself, so I couldn’t call my wife, much as I wanted to. But I needed to talk to someone.
So I rang my therapist. Thank God she answered. I apologized for the intrusion, told her I didn’t know who else to call. I told her I’d had a fight with Willy, he’d knocked me to the floor. I looked down and told her that my shirt was ripped, my necklace was broken. We’d had a million physical fights in our lives, I told her. As boys we’d done nothing but fight. But this felt different. The therapist told me to take deep breaths. She asked me to describe the scene several times. Each time I did it seemed more like a bad dream. And made me a bit calmer. I told her: I’m proud of myself. Proud, Harry? Why’s that? I didn’t hit him back. I stayed true to my word, didn’t tell Meg. But not long after she returned from her trip, she saw me coming out of the shower and gasped. Haz, what are those scrapes and bruises on your back? I couldn’t lie to her. She wasn’t that surprised, and she wasn’t at all angry. She was terribly sad.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

 

[Wackie Jeaver]

I do love the way @Anna2020 puts Prince Harry, the Duke of Sussex underneath each collection of drivel

 

[lollipop_panda]

Thanks to @Churchill's Ghost for the new thread title. Im posting new thread then will edit later with recap!

old thread here

Harry and Meghan #298 The half price Prince

BIB This is exactly why the RF adopt the never complain never explain policy. It would take scores of people to answer every single negative story in the press. Plus answering them generates more column inches - as evidenced by this book. It seems it is by far the best policy to ignore things...

tattle.life

The fallout continues from the book. @JAR21has been religiously recording all the bits and bobs in the wiki.

if you’re new to the thread you can grab the popcorn and watch away, say hi (which I never did, I’m an introvert so I kinda slipped into to the convo a while ago but I promise you everyone is lovely).

The book is its own statement. Read and make your own opinion.

As always with the Harkles, a plethora of inconsistencies. Thank you to @Anna2020 for the posts.

And an off topic shoutout to @ChaoticArtist for her great exam result!

This is a friendly but cynical and sarcastic community that is well informed about the Harkles. As said at the start of the post, if you’re new and inquisitive about the train wreck that is the Harkles, wiki is in pink at top of page!

 

[StSaturnindeLucian]

Odd to describe a baby as a 'little visitor'.

Also why not finish the story and mention that Danny Baker (who at the time was a Radio 5 DJ, not a journalist) was sacked by the BBC immediately after he tweeted the monkey picture and also apologised.
There was uproar at the time too, it wasn't excused or brushed under the carpet.

 

[Chita]

For @Anna2020
An award for your services above the call of duty.
You read the shite so we didn't have to and you brought the contents of it here for everyone to discuss.

 

[Anna2020]

MEG AND I MOVED our office into Buckingham Palace. We also moved into a new home. Frogmore was ready. We loved that place. From the first minute. It felt as if we were destined to live there.
We couldn’t wait to wake up in the morning, go for a long walk in the gardens, check in with the swans. Especially grumpy Steve. We met the Queen’s gardeners, got to know their names and the names of all the flowers. They thrilled at how much we appreciated, and praised, their artistry.
Towards the end of April 2019, days before Meg was due to give birth, Willy rang.
Something had happened between him and Pa and Camilla. I couldn’t get the whole story, he was talking too fast, and was way too upset.
He was seething actually. I gathered that Pa and Camilla’s people had planted a story or stories about him and Kate, and the kids, and he wasn’t going to take it anymore. Give Pa and Camilla an inch, he said, they take a mile.
They’ve done this to me for the last time.
I got it. They’d done the same to me and Meg as well.
But it wasn’t them, technically, it was the most gung-ho member of Pa’s comms team, a true believer who’d devised and launched a new campaign of getting good press for Pa and Camilla at the expense of bad press for us. For some time this person had been peddling unflattering stories, fake stories, about the Heir and Spare, to all the papers
I suspected that this person had been the lone source for stories about a hunting trip I’d made to Germany in 2017, stories that made me out
to be some fat-bottomed seventeenth-century baron who craved blood and trophies, when in reality I was working with German farmers to cull wild boar and save their crops.
I believed the story had been offered as a straight swap, in exchange for greater access to Pa, and also as a reward for the suppression of stories about Camilla’s son, who’d been gadding around London, generating tawdry rumors. I was displeased about being used like this, and livid about it being done to Meg, but I had to admit it was happening much more often lately to Willy.
And he was justifiably incandescent. He’d already confronted Pa once about this woman, face-to-face. I’d gone along for moral support. The scene took place at Clarence House, in Pa’s study. I remember the windows being wide open, the white curtains blowing in and out, so it must’ve been a warm night.
Willy put it to Pa: How can you be letting a stranger do this to your sons?
Pa instantly got upset.
He began shouting that Willy was paranoid. We both were. Just because we were getting bad press, and he was getting good, that didn’t mean his staff was behind it.
But we had proof. Reporters, inside actual newsrooms, assuring us that this woman was selling us out.
Pa refused to listen. His response was churlish, pathetic. Granny has her person, why can’t I have mine? By Granny’s person he meant Angela. Among the many services she performed for Granny, she was said to be skilled at planting stories.
What a rubbish comparison, Willy said. Why would anyone in their right mind, let alone a grown man, want their own Angela?
But Pa just kept saying it. Granny had her person, Granny had her person. High time he had a person too.
I was glad that Willy felt he could still come to me about Pa and Camilla, even after all we’d been through recently. Seeing an opportunity to address our recent tensions, I tried to connect what Pa and Camilla had done to him with what the press had done to Meg.
Willy snapped: I’ve got different issues with you two!
In a blink he shifted all his rage onto me. I can’t recall his exact words, because I was beyond tired from all our fighting, to say nothing of the recent move into Frogmore, and into new offices—and I was focused on the imminent birth of our first child. But I recall every physical detail of the scene. The daffodils out, the new grass sprouting, a jet taking off from Heathrow, heading west, unusually low, its engines making my chest vibrate. I remember thinking how remarkable that I could still hear Willy above that jet.
I couldn’t imagine how he had that much anger left after the confrontation in Nott Cott. He was going on and on and I lost the thread. I couldn’t understand and I stopped trying. I fell silent, waiting for him to subside.
Then I looked back. Meg was coming from the house, directly towards me. I quickly took the phone off speaker, but she’d already heard. And Willy was being so loud, even with the speaker off, she could still hear. The tears in her eyes glistened in the spring sunshine. I started to say something, but she stopped, shook her head. Holding her stomach, she turned and walked back to the house.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

 

[LadyBee_Aus]

Drivel excerpt (thanks Anna2020):

She reminded me in a whisper, as if someone might be listening, that she’d taken a handwriting class in high school, and as a result she’d always had excellent penmanship. People complimented her. She’d even used this skill at university to earn spare money. Nights, weekends, she’d inscribed wedding and birthday-party invitations, to pay the rent. Now people were trying to say that this was some kind of window into her soul? And the window was dirty?
Meg wanted to sue. Me too. Rather, we both felt we had no choice. If we didn’t sue over this, we said, what kind of signal would that be sending? To the press? To the world? So we conferred again with the Palace lawyer. We were given a runaround.
I reached out to Pa and Willy. They’d both sued the press in the past over invasions and lies.
Pa sued over so-called Black Spider Letters, his memos to government officials. Willy sued over topless photos of Kate. But both vehemently opposed the idea of Meg and me taking any legal action.

So…. Charles sues over Govt matters, William sues over invasive nude photos, and Harry wants to sue over TW’s handwriting!!!!

 

[D. A.]

I wish I could keep up but I can't I have too much stuff to do
I am also feeling a bit despondent with the "he's ill" that seems to almost be excusing his behaviour, I hope this is not how this is all going to be spun (Trevor Coult really has me worried it is going this way) I don't see an ill man when I see the sneer, smugness & sheer satisfaction he is getting at throwing his family to the wolves. I see utter contempt from a nasty, petulant, over privileged f#cking wanker
Yes, I have Reek overload

Anyway, thread suggestion, partially stolen from twitter

Harry & Meghan #300 She's always crying, he's always high, if only the Palace had a right to reply

 

[LadyMuck]

I still can't get over the fact that they had the gall to turn up to HMQ funeral, sat amongst his family, accepted W's gracious invitation to be part of the walkabout, when all along he had written this most vile vicious shite.

And she did The Cut, threatening she could say anything as no nda, all while Queen was in her final days.

Not forgetting they did OW interview while PP was dying.

Don't think I've ever known of a high profile person be so vile and nasty about their own family so publicly.

 

[Gerry o]

MEG AND I MOVED our office into Buckingham Palace. We also moved into a new home. Frogmore was ready. We loved that place. From the first minute. It felt as if we were destined to live there.
We couldn’t wait to wake up in the morning, go for a long walk in the gardens, check in with the swans. Especially grumpy Steve. We met the Queen’s gardeners, got to know their names and the names of all the flowers. They thrilled at how much we appreciated, and praised, their artistry.
Towards the end of April 2019, days before Meg was due to give birth, Willy rang.
Something had happened between him and Pa and Camilla. I couldn’t get the whole story, he was talking too fast, and was way too upset.
He was seething actually. I gathered that Pa and Camilla’s people had planted a story or stories about him and Kate, and the kids, and he wasn’t going to take it anymore. Give Pa and Camilla an inch, he said, they take a mile.
They’ve done this to me for the last time.
I got it. They’d done the same to me and Meg as well.
But it wasn’t them, technically, it was the most gung-ho member of Pa’s comms team, a true believer who’d devised and launched a new campaign of getting good press for Pa and Camilla at the expense of bad press for us. For some time this person had been peddling unflattering stories, fake stories, about the Heir and Spare, to all the papers
I suspected that this person had been the lone source for stories about a hunting trip I’d made to Germany in 2017, stories that made me out
to be some fat-bottomed seventeenth-century baron who craved blood and trophies, when in reality I was working with German farmers to cull wild boar and save their crops.
I believed the story had been offered as a straight swap, in exchange for greater access to Pa, and also as a reward for the suppression of stories about Camilla’s son, who’d been gadding around London, generating tawdry rumors. I was displeased about being used like this, and livid about it being done to Meg, but I had to admit it was happening much more often lately to Willy.
And he was justifiably incandescent. He’d already confronted Pa once about this woman, face-to-face. I’d gone along for moral support. The scene took place at Clarence House, in Pa’s study. I remember the windows being wide open, the white curtains blowing in and out, so it must’ve been a warm night.
Willy put it to Pa: How can you be letting a stranger do this to your sons?
Pa instantly got upset.
He began shouting that Willy was paranoid. We both were. Just because we were getting bad press, and he was getting good, that didn’t mean his staff was behind it.
But we had proof. Reporters, inside actual newsrooms, assuring us that this woman was selling us out.
Pa refused to listen. His response was churlish, pathetic. Granny has her person, why can’t I have mine? By Granny’s person he meant Angela. Among the many services she performed for Granny, she was said to be skilled at planting stories.
What a rubbish comparison, Willy said. Why would anyone in their right mind, let alone a grown man, want their own Angela?
But Pa just kept saying it. Granny had her person, Granny had her person. High time he had a person too.
I was glad that Willy felt he could still come to me about Pa and Camilla, even after all we’d been through recently. Seeing an opportunity to address our recent tensions, I tried to connect what Pa and Camilla had done to him with what the press had done to Meg.
Willy snapped: I’ve got different issues with you two!
In a blink he shifted all his rage onto me. I can’t recall his exact words, because I was beyond tired from all our fighting, to say nothing of the recent move into Frogmore, and into new offices—and I was focused on the imminent birth of our first child. But I recall every physical detail of the scene. The daffodils out, the new grass sprouting, a jet taking off from Heathrow, heading west, unusually low, its engines making my chest vibrate. I remember thinking how remarkable that I could still hear Willy above that jet.
I couldn’t imagine how he had that much anger left after the confrontation in Nott Cott. He was going on and on and I lost the thread. I couldn’t understand and I stopped trying. I fell silent, waiting for him to subside.
Then I looked back. Meg was coming from the house, directly towards me. I quickly took the phone off speaker, but she’d already heard. And Willy was being so loud, even with the speaker off, she could still hear. The tears in her eyes glistened in the spring sunshine. I started to say something, but she stopped, shook her head. Holding her stomach, she turned and walked back to the house.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

what an actress like a scene from a movie! “The tears in her eyes glistened in the spring sunshine I started to say something”……
Dear god that’s so funny

 

[ChipDex]

Thanks for the new thread and title.

I wonder the Wasp is Tall Paul

The Fly is definitely Simon Case.

He's lucky the RF's advisors weren't abrasive people like Alistair Campbell or Dominic Cummings. I doubt either would have even given him the time of day. They might even have done a "William" on him.

What's coming across is confirmation of what we all suspected. Haz is completely self-obsessed and utterly paranoid and even more so than we could have imagined. He also appears to have absolutely no idea that the working RF members are basically part of the Government. Hence advisors, spin-doctors, private secretaries and so forth. And of course TQ, Charles and William were prioritised as current/future Heads of State.

The staff are there to work, to manage, to liaise, to organise. Same as their counterparts in Westminster do for the PM and the Cabinet. Not to act as Harold's personal PR whenever he wants to clap back at literally anything and everything that offends his sensibilities, or makes Smeg collapse on the floor in a snivelling heap for the 100th time. Imagine if the Government responded to every little thing, however trivial, written about them?

Haz is so utterly immature, it's embarrassing. He really thinks the UK and the RF revolve around him and his needs.

And I suspect him spinning the Taliban stuff on Colbert is him trying to save his Invictus position. Will be interesting to see if the MoD continue to support it.

 

[Maggiemaynot]

Just this.